


Hold 'em Like They Do in Texas Please

by sutlers



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-26
Updated: 2011-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sutlers/pseuds/sutlers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moira MacTaggert is an exceptional woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold 'em Like They Do in Texas Please

**Author's Note:**

> So there was this terrible prompt on the X-men kink meme about Moira spending all her time [imagining Charles and Erik having sex](http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/4418.html?thread=5729090#t5729090), and of course I had to write it.

Moira MacTaggert, Charles knows, is an exceptional woman -- joining the CIA at 22, talking her way from analyst into becoming one of their very first female field agents, Harvard-educated (can't be helped) -- but the same qualities that make her exceptional make her thinking rather . . . unorthodox, occasionally, a fact that is brought home to him rather abruptly when he sits down for breakfast next to Erik and is assaulted by images of them having sex on the dining-room table. Him and Erik, that is: the images are remarkably vivid, and surprisingly detailed. It's this aspect of them that helps him track their origin to Moira's mind, the hallmark of someone trained in intelligence work, that she has them down to the tiny scar marring the bone of Erik's left wrist. That hand is the one that sweeps the cutlery to the floor, knives and forks falling with a clatter, plates shattering, and Charles's arse hits the table in the clear space. His thighs open immediately, bracketing Erik's hips, and Erik laughs a little at his eagerness, the low, amused sound that Charles knows so well (not in this kind of situation). Erik kisses him then, wet and lewd, while his hand opens his own flies (Charles is already stark naked, when did that happen) and he says,

"Can you pass me the coffee?"

"What?" Charles croaks, face flaming.

"The coffee," Erik repeats, looking at him strangely. "On your other side?"

"Of course!" Charles says, barely managing to avoid spilling it all over himself in his haste to hand it over. He looks at Moira on the other end of the table and she smiles at him politely, no sign of what she's thinking about on her face. If Charles had needed any more evidence that she made a truly excellent agent he'd have it now, as she serenely spears a piece of toast and thinks about Erik flipping him over and holding him down by the hair, fingering him open while Charles moans like a five-quid whore.

"Thank you for the breakfast, it was lovely," she says when she's finished, and walks away.

***

It gets worse. Sometimes Moira imagines herself between them both but more often than not it's just him and Erik in increasingly pornographic situations, positions Charles is almost positive he is not flexible enough for (though Erik, possibly), and once Charles is wearing a frilly dress from the past century and Erik is a bizarre combination of Mr Darcy and Heathcliff, and they're having some kind of row on what Charles suspects are the Scottish moors. And then Erik rips his dress off and ravages him, and by this point Charles is so far beyond embarrassed he's almost resigned, pouring himself yet another splash of brandy and wondering why he can't manage to block these thoughts from his head. He's tried, but Moira is a force of nature. Possibly she has a mutation he can't detect.

"Good brandy, Charles?" Erik says, looking pointedly at the nearly empty bottle next to Charles's hand.

"Yes, quite," Charles says weakly. He gasps. "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm being a terrible host. Please, let me." He pours the rest of the brandy into Erik's glass -- he's almost sure, only Erik seems to have three glasses. Erik shouldn't be drinking so much.

"You shouldn't be drinking so much," Charles tells Erik sincerely, and there's that look again. Charles has a sudden vision of Erik pushing him down on the floor and pushing his shirt up around his armpits, trailing a piece of ice in a meandering path down his chest and licking fifty-year-old scotch from his bellybutton. That one is probably Moira's.

"Is something on your mind?" Erik asks, leaning over to dab the floor with a fistful of napkins. Whoops.

"No," Charles says, drawing the word out to about five times its usual length. "You're lovely. I mean, I'm lovely. I'm fine."

"You seem fine," Erik says, and Charles considers telling him that sarcasm doesn't become him, but that would be a lie, everything becomes him.

"You're very becoming," Charles says. "I especially liked the cravat, that was a nice touch. And how the dress protected me from the nettles."

There is a very long pause while Charles goes over what he's just said and wishes desperately for death.

"Thank you," Erik says finally. "Perhaps we should finish this game tomorrow?"

"You're so intelligent," Charles says, then tries to will himself into sobering up instead of thinking about all the fake chess games that end with Erik riding Charles in this armchair that he's sitting in right now, or Erik's cock sliding down Charles's throat (his lips are definitely not that red). "I mean, that is a good idea."

"Do you need someone to help you to bed?" Erik asks, and oh God, now he's amused, a slow warm curl of it on the edge of Charles's awareness. It takes every shred of composure Charles can scrounge together to not blurt, "you please," and shake his head no. He makes his way out of the room with a modicum of dignity and only falls on the stairs three times.

***

 _Mm, rode hard and put away wet,_ Moira thinks when Charles staggers into the kitchen the next morning with the worst hangover he's had since that exchange student convinced him it would be a good idea to chase tequila shots with vodka-cranberry. "Good morning," she says aloud.

"God help me," Charles says. Moira's eyebrows twitch.

"Long night?" she asks blandly. "You shouldn't let Erik keep you up so late playing, Charles."

"I need to -- go," Charles says, and flees the room.

As luck would have it he runs smack into Erik in the hallway, Erik who has clearly just come back from his morning run, dressed in soft cotton and smelling of sweat and outdoors. Erik grabs Charles's arm to steady him and a strangled little whimper comes out of Charles's throat. "What is going -- " Erik starts.

Charles kisses him. Erik's mouth is slack with surprise for a half-second before he surges forward, cupping Charles's chin with one hand and kissing back.

"What brought that on?" Erik groans.

"Nothing," Charles mumbles, and Moira clears her throat behind them.


End file.
